


Soulgazing

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:46:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had gone to Mars as Zechs, a disgraced soldier, the eternal prodigal son. But at some point, during my second year on the distance planet, I had realized that Miliardo was more than just a memory. That I was him too. And it was as Miliardo that I had returned to Earth. I was still both - the polished, poised and cool-headed aristocrat, as well as the cynical, hardened soldier who longed for glory and revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soulgazing

A/N: For my Patreon Patrons. Thank you so very, very much for your support.

A/N 2: As always, thank you Ro and Maeve. For beta-reading, for never-ending encouragement, for being so amazing.

 

Warnings: language, sex, angst, fluff

Pairings: 6x3

 

_ Soul-gazing _

 

“ _ You _ clearly have no grasp on the intricacies of inter-colonial currency regulation! It’s preposterous to suggest a unified, standard credit system spanning the colonies  _ and _ Earth. You-”

“Don’t forget Mars.”

Three words, and the most boring debate in recent ESUN legislative meetings came to a complete halt.

I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have simply allowed my brain to continue slipping so very painfully slowly into unconsciousness while the pompous windbags around me tried to frame their personal ambitions as ethical decisions.

I should have done a lot of things - in that moment, in my life. And yet, here I was. Opening my mouth and speaking up when, by all rights - by all  _ orders _ \- I was simply a silent observer during these proceedings. Sanc Kingdom, so small and insignificant except for the fact that its ruler, Relena Peacecraft, was still, seven years after the Wars, a major inter-colonial political player, garnered a single seat in the ESUN parliament. And even that seat was more ceremonial than anything else, which was exactly why my dear little sister had given me the appointment. It was supposed to keep me out of trouble and yet be  _ symbolic _ enough to appeal to my vanity.

She was clever, that was a given. But we had, I feared, both overestimated my patience for politicians. I had lived too long as a soldier, and five years spent in the garrison-style colony on Mars had done next to nothing to soften my disposition towards civilians who understood nothing about the reality of mankind.

And with those three words, I had reminded the entire four-hundred seat assembly that, nestled in their midst, was the soldier-turned-traitor-turned-Martian.

“What do you mean, don’t forget Mars?” the delegate from the United States blustered. Then again, he blustered over everything. Perhaps I wasn’t so special or disagreeable after all.

I leaned forward in my chair, so that this time, when I spoke, my words were delivered directly into the microphone seated in front of me. It was a wonder they had even allowed for it to be on in the first place.

“Currently, the Martian territories operate on an independent credit system that is regulated by the Unilateral Miners Federation - the organization that funded the initial Mars colonies and still provides the majority of material support. Since the UMF is not politically, or nationally, aligned - their credit system is neither Terran or colonial. Do you propose to ignore the need to integrate the Martian economy with the ESUN, or are you simply unaware that 3 billion UMF credits worth of goods are produced and exported from Mars each year, and that goods estimated at2 billion UMF credits are imported? The Martian holdings are still small - there are only ten thousand inhabitants currently. But in two years? Five? Ten? Will 100 billion-”

“Thank you for that insight, Representative Peacecraft.”

I was interrupted, predictably, by Quatre Winner.

One of the youngest members of the ESUN parliament, Winner had been able to transition his wartime notoriety and personal wealth into a platform for colonial political and economic equality that had seen him elected to represent his home colony in the L4 clusters as soon as he had turned 18, and he had been returned to his seat in every election since. 

He was, I was confident, one of my sisters many conquests and, as he had told me himself, no fan of mine.

It could be that Winner simply wanted to deflect a potential conflict by interrupting me. But the hard look he sent me across the assembly hall made it clear that he had also wanted to deflect  _ me _ .

“I was under the impression that Representative Peacecraft sat for the Sanc Kingdom. Is it possible his nameplate is incorrect? Should it read  _ Mars _ ?” The Spanish representative’s words earned more than a few chuckles, and even applause.

Mars, of course, had no representative.

“I believe that our colleague simply wished to point out that we must consider all possible avenues for the growth of the ESUN before trapping ourselves into binding legal policies,” Winner said, his voice a pleasant tenor, at once soft and authoritative. The room listened. As it always did.

And, just like that, attention shifted away from me and the debate continued anew. Without another mention of Mars.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, letting the meaningless debate drone on around me and trying my best to remember why I had ever left Mars in the first place.

_Oh, yes. Oxygen. Sunlight. Red meat._ _Grass_.

Leaving Mars had been an excruciating decision to make. And even now, after seven months spent on Earth, I still had to wonder if it had been the right one.

Days like today, debates like this one, had me questioning that decision all over again.

I felt a vibration in my pocket and, surreptitiously, I reached down and pulled out my phone from my pocket.

A text message, from an unfamiliar number.

**Off-duty until 8.8 0900.**

Adrenaline flooded through my body and I had to fight hard to keep my face blank, to maintain my mask of boredom. To not give away just how much the short message meant to me.

Three days. It wasn’t much, but we had had less.

**M or Z?**

I sent the text back, wondering, as I always did, which he would ask for.

It was several minutes before a response came. Long enough for me to notice that the cluster of Lunar representatives seated in the row in front of me appeared to be playing a complicated dots and boxes game.

**M.**

I killed the smile that came to my lips at that choice, and sent back my reply.

**ETA 1900.**

I put the phone away - I doubted he would have more to add, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Not over that. Not over  _ him _ .

It had started, like most things, when I did something I shouldn’t have.

_ Something  _ like upset the already belligerent L2 faction on Mars that had been  _ resettled _ there, not entirely voluntarily. My actions - denying the faction greater representation on the UMF Martian council that governed the colony, since, according to the charter, they weren’t a large enough group to warrant another representative; and, of course, there had been the incident involving the fire at Outpost 17 - had resulted in not one, or two, or even three, but  _ four _ assassination attempts within the same number of months. Between the assassination attempts and the O17 incident, Preventers decided to send an agent to Mars to figure out just  _ what _ was going on. 

The agent, to my surprise, had been 03, the former Gundam pilot, who went by the name of a dead man. Trowa Barton.

I had met him only once before, briefly, in Antarctica all those years ago, when I, too, had lived with an assumed name and an identity not my own.

Things were different, on Mars. Of course they were - not only had time passed, not only had we changed and hardened - but  _ everything _ was different on Mars. Even sex. No condoms, on Mars, because the used nitrile was a bio-hazard and difficult for the trash-reclaimers to break down. So, instead, every Martian had to put in an order for a unique anti-biotic lubricant, go through monthly testing, and temporary sterilization. Our first time - his first night on Mars, in fact - 03 had been amused by my too-detailed explanation, but had waited for me to finish before arching one eyebrow and asking if I planned to fuck him or just lecture him all night. 

He had been stationed on Mars for the better part of six months - the time it took for the next cargo shipment to arrive and provide off-planet transport - and in that time a relationship that had started off as a purely physical, somewhat antagonistic and certainly dangerous dalliance had changed into something far more complicated, emotional and significantly more dangerous. I remained on Mars for another year, after 03 left, but when I came back to Earth, I wasn’t the least surprised to find him waiting for me in the hotel room I had arranged for myself in Brussels.

Our time together, on Earth, was infrequent. In the seven months I had been planetside, I had only seen him twelve times. It made the six months we had spent together on Mars feel like a lifetime. And like a lifetime  _ ago _ .

Which meant that, whenever I received these messages from him, I immediately set about clearing my schedule as much as possible for the duration of the rendezvous. I used the terminal built into my station to pull up my schedule for the rest of the week. 

Meetings, of course. Dull meetings. I could easily skip half of them, but there were a handful - including one with Winner and a separate one with my sister - that I needed to be present for. That meant no running away for the next seventy-two hours. We had done that, once. I had taken him to a tropical island and we had spent five glorious days naked under the sun, swimming and fucking and drinking until there was nothing else but the two of us.

After what felt like seven hours, but in reality was only two, the parliament session drew to a close and the representatives started to shuffle out of the room.

I took my time gathering my non-existent papers and belongings. As much as I wanted to race from the room, I knew that there were, at all times, eyes on me. 

Including a pair of blue-green eyes that were currently staring me down as Quatre Winner strode between fleeing representatives, headed right for me.

I remained seated as he came to a stop right in front of me. It was rude, and it was petty. I was sure that Relena would give me an earful for this later, but, well, I always did things I shouldn’t.

Winner arched an eyebrow, eyes sweeping over my relaxed pose, my sprawled legs.

“Do you require any assistance?” I asked.

Winner’s lips briefly compressed before he forced a smile.

“No. Do  _ you _ ?”

I arched an eyebrow at him in question.

“Perhaps you forgot that your role as a  _ non-voting _ member of this body makes you more of an observer than an actual delegate.”

“Hm. Yes. Difficult to forget that when I’m reminded of it on a daily basis.”

“The Sanc Kingdom has always been viewed as a  _ guide _ \- an inspiration and-”

“I’ve heard this speech from my sister,” I interrupted him, and finally got to my feet. 

I towered over him. Even now, at the age of twenty-two, Winner was slight. He was barely an inch taller than Relena, but that lack of height difference certainly made for perfect photographs.

He sighed and looked up at me, correctly judging the move as one meant to irritate and intimidate him.

“And yet, you refuse to honor her wishes. Zechs, you should really-”

“Miliardo,” I corrected him, my voice lazy and bored, but my eyes no doubt conveying my anger.

“Miliardo,” he amended. We both knew the slip had been intentional. A reminder of the times before, when I had been wrong and he had been right. A reminder of that fact that, even now,  _ he _ was the hero and I was the traitor who had to hide.

This was taking too long. 

“If you are quite done reminding me of just why it is so dangerous to give the colonies more voting representatives in this body than Terran governments, I do believe you are late for a dinner engagement with Relena.”

We locked gazes, neither willing to back down. Of course, Winner probably thought he was fighting against me to preserve peace or please Relena. I was simply being antagonistic because Winner irritated me.

Winner drew in a deep breath and let out a long sigh. He smiled again, the expression less forced this time.

“Please tell Trowa hello, and that I look forward to seeing him on Saturday.”

And with that, before I could even begin to formulate a response, Winner turned on his heel and walked away.

I wasn’t in any way surprised that Winner knew. Of course he did. I only wondered  _ how _ he knew - wondered if it was from his own sources, Relena’s, or Une’s. I was confident it wasn’t the man himself who had told Winner. 

I was also, I had to admit, if only to myself, jealous and irritated that Winner had made it clear I wasn’t the only person of importance for him to visit.

Distracted, I took longer to leave the assembly room and, predictably, got held up in traffic. It was nearly eight by the time I made it across town to my apartment.

I unlocked the door and walked in, immediately sensing that I was not alone. 

He didn’t even have a key - or maybe, by now, he had had one made.  _ Somehow, _ he always managed to get in, leaving no trace of a forced entrance.

I set my briefcase on the table by the door, hung my overcoat up in the closet, and went in search of him.

I found him in the kitchen tossing a salad, and I arched an eyebrow at that, at the scent of something roasting in my pristine and never-used oven and, of course, at what he was wearing.

His shirt, a loose, long-sleeved blue cotton thing with a deep v-neck, was shockingly casual in comparison to my own suit, in comparison to some of the things he had worn before. And jeans. I didn’t think I had  _ ever _ seen him in jeans. They were rolled up a few times, at the cuffs, and his feet were bare.

_ My _ jeans, I realized, as I noticed how loose they were on his thighs.

I leaned against the entrance to the kitchen and took my time looking him over. He looked casual and comfortable, and it was  _ very _ difficult for me to not open my mouth and make a snarky comment about enforcing proper dress code.

**M** he had said, though. He had asked for Miliardo, and not Zechs. 

I had gone to Mars as Zechs, a disgraced soldier, the eternal prodigal son. But at some point, during my second year on the distance planet, I had realized that Miliardo was more than just a memory. That I was him  _ too _ . And it was as Miliardo that I had returned to Earth. I was still both - the polished, poised and cool-headed aristocrat, as well as the cynical, hardened soldier who longed for glory and revenge. 

He knew that - we had started this relationship with him provoking  _ Zechs _ , taunting me until I fell into my old ways, until I lashed out and fought. It was only later, weeks later, that either of us acknowledged I could be both, with him. Zechs or Miliardo. Zechs  _ and _ Miliardo. 

There were times, even now, when I found myself slipping between one and the other. And there were times when he wanted one or the other. 

Tonight, he had asked for Miliardo. Which meant he didn’t want to fight, didn’t want outright aggression or domination. He wasn’t here to do battle or to submit to  _ Zechs _ .

Not that, as Miliardo, I was kind and gentle. Though I could be, as either. Miliardo meant a slower pace to things, a depth and complexity that our engagements as warriors often lacked. Miliardo was not simple. 

Nor was I the only one who played different parts. 

While I had Miliardo and Zechs,  _ he _ had an infinite number of faces. Even on Mars, he had been more than just 03 and Trowa Barton. There were times when he was dark and deadly, the look in his eyes so bleak and merciless it might as well have been the vacuum of space. There were other times, though, when he showed a vulnerability that was every bit as terrifying. Just as I struggled to be Zechs or Miliardo - to be both - 03 seemed to still be searching for his own identity. Even after so many years of wearing a dead man’s name, it clearly fit him poorly, a reminder of the Wars, of his misdeeds and the past he would never, truly, have.

When he came to me, here in my apartment, he rarely came as 03 or as Trowa Barton. Once, he had been Trowa - had come here ready to draw blood and, in the end, we both had. Once, he had been Triton - quiet and confident and horny as hell. Once, he had been Aaron - chatty and witty and  _ just _ this side of exasperating. Once, he had been Henry - shy and awkward and desperate. Once, he had been Mischa - daring and taunting and full of soft, mocking laughter. 

I didn’t know who they were - didn’t know who  _ he _ would be - until I came home and found him there, until I analyzed his clothes and mannerisms and managed to pick him apart. And he was different, with Miliardo and Zechs. Henry, with Zechs, invariably ended up panting and crying and begging, but with Miliardo, Henry was caressed and worshipped until he smiled.

I wasn’t sure how much of it was a game, for 03. For me. 

I also wasn’t sure who  _ he _ was tonight. 

So I stood and watched him, his fluid, casual movements, his lithe body in my jeans and the revealing shirt. 

He wasn’t 03 or Trowa. Or Triton, Aaron, Henry or Mischa. 

His hair was tousled and a little wet - he had likely used my shower, and I was sure that, if I moved closer to him, I would smell the ginger shampoo that he only used here, with me.

But I was reluctant to act just yet.

Even though he hadn’t looked at me once, I knew he was aware of my presence. He was aware of everything.

He had never cooked before. Usually, we ordered takeout, or went out, or I cooked for us when the mood struck me. Which was rare.

And he had never worn my clothes., even when cold or unable to find his own - he would simply go without rather than wear something from me.

“I’m late,” I said, unnecessarily, in an effort to prompt conversation.

He shrugged one shoulder, a common enough gesture that it didn’t help me much.

“I saw the live feed - I knew when you left. Nothing’s burnt.”

I nodded and sniffed the air again. It smelled like a roast - and I wondered how long he had been here, to have made that.

He finished with the salad and wiped his hands off on a kitchen towel before turning to fully face me. There was a softness, an openness to his features even under the fall of his long bangs, that took me aback.

It wasn’t weakness I was seeing - this wasn’t Henry. 

Instead, his face simply seemed… sincere. As if he were genuinely content to be in my presence.

The thought was a bit difficult to wrap my head around - I knew he enjoyed my company, but I had never considered that there could exist a level of comfort between us that his face and body language now suggested.

Uneasy, but willing to risk it, I stepped forward and lifted my hand to his face.

He allowed it, tilting his chin up just enough that kissing him felt easy and natural, our lips fitting together, the heat and strength of his body welcoming me.

I kept the kiss light, and he didn’t push for more. 

After a moment, I stepped back, and he offered me the whisper of a smile.

“I missed you.”

“And I missed you.” His words startled me, and I spoke before really thinking it through. He noticed, of course, and his smile grew into a familiar smirk.

But he didn’t press me - not like Mischa would have. Instead, he nodded towards an open bottle of wine on the counter.

“I think that will go well with the roast?” It was half-statement, half-question. It was him admitting that, as much of a chameleon as he was, there were some things he still hadn’t mastered.

I poured some of the wine into a glass, sniffed it, and then took a sip.

It was rich, smooth and had just enough bite to be refreshing.

I nodded in approval, and I saw his shoulders relax.

“Do I have enough time to change before we eat?” I asked him, still trying to navigate this new, blissful domesticity. 

He nodded.

“The roast is about to come out, and then it needs to sit for ten minutes. Go ahead.”

He sounded unhurried, completely relaxed - there was no undercurrent to his voice, no shadows in his eyes or tension around his mouth. 

I left the kitchen, turning this new puzzle over and over in my head. 

He was unlike any of the other iterations I had experienced - perhaps a composite of them, but so different and distinct that it was hard to pin down just who he reminded me of.

I decided to follow his lead, and changed out of my suit and into jeans and a sweater, the white crew-neck one that he had, on previous occasions, so enjoyed removing.

When I rejoined him in the kitchen, he was plating the food and, allowing myself to act on impulse, I pressed a kiss to the exposed nape of his neck and wrapped an arm around his waist. 

He relaxed into me, leaning against my chest and tucking his head under my chin, fitting so perfectly I wondered why I had never tried this before.

“It looks wonderful,” I told him, glancing over his shoulder at the meal.

“Let’s hope it’s at least edible and not purely aesthetic,” he murmured. “I’ve never tried this before.”

I was sure he was referring to more than simply the roast.

I kissed him again, then moved away to pour more wine for the two of us and set the table.

He joined me, with the food, and we ate in companionable silence.

It  _ was _ good, and when I complimented him again he offered another smile and pink tinged his cheeks.

After we ate, he stacked the dishes in the washer and I put away the roast.

And then I wasn’t entirely sure what to do.

Usually, we fucked first, until we were both breathless and exhausted and half the time we didn’t even eat, like the first day we were together. This… this was all entirely new.

He moved past me, fingers brushing against mine and pulling gently.

I followed him into the living room and allowed him to pull me down onto the couch. He leaned against me, and it felt entirely natural to drape my arm across his shoulders and pull him closer.

I sensed none of the usual sharpness tonight, none of the inherent danger of inviting 03 into my life. But he wasn’t dull, wasn’t entirely soft. 

He was pliant, though, in a way that had me sighing and nuzzling at his neck, his jaw and his lips.

He opened his mouth to me, let me lead the kiss, but he teased me with his tongue and teeth, catching my lip and drawing a soft moan of pleasure from me.

There was no urgency to the kiss, however, and when we parted, he settled against me again.

“Who is he?” I finally had to ask, looking at the way he stretched his legs out on the couch.

The question aroused tension in him, and I felt it, the slight shift, the rise of his defenses.

“Do you like him?” His voice was so low I barely heard him.

“He’s unexpected. A surprise, but not an unpleasant one.” I tugged on his hair, gently, but enough to emphasize my curiosity. “Who is he?” I repeated.

“I think he’s me.”

I was glad he was facing away from me, so that he didn’t see the surprise on my face and so that I couldn’t see how much it had cost him to admit that.

It made sense - I could see fragments from all of the others in him - he was a version of them, but yet, at the same time, he was none of them.

“I don’t have a name.”

I looked down and saw that he was tracing his left palm with the fingers of his right hand.

I knew he didn’t have a name, and he knew I knew. And yet the words seemed to cause him pain.

“What’s in a name?” I asked, and he snorted, softly, in appreciation to the allusion.  _ That _ had been a pleasant discovery - his love for ancient Terran literature. 

“I don’t want to be a dead man, not anymore. Not with you.”

I shifted on the couch, moving him as well, pulling him closer and taking his right hand in my own.

He had always selected his own names, had always created himself without me.

I had a feeling that I would  _ not _ be seeing any of the others again - or at least, not as complete and independent identities. He would always have 03, Trowa, Triton, Aaron, Henry and Mischa within him. Just as I would always have Miliardo and Zechs.

“Nicolau.”

He was still, for a moment, and I wondered if I had misread his silence as an invitation.

“Say it again,” he commanded, his voice hesitant.

“Nicolau,” I breathed it against his hair. “Nicolau.” His ear. “Nicolau.” His cheek. “Nicolau.” His lips.

I felt his own, dry and chapped, form into a smile.

“Yes,” he agreed, and I kissed Nicolau.


End file.
